Inconstant Moon
by moikai
Summary: She had never stayed with him on the full moon, so she had no idea what to expect. But she kept her promises, and she wasn't afraid. RemusTonks
1. Metamorphoses

Disclaimer: This is J.K. Rowling's world, I'm just writing in it.

Although I've never been much of a "shipper," I was inspired to write this after reading **there goes my gun**'s excellent Remus/Tonks stories, which you should read too. I tried not to imitate her too closely, but some similarities have crept in despite my best efforts. Please regard them as homage rather than theft. ;)

The quotes later in the chapter are from A.S. Kline's translation of Ovid's "Metamorphoses."

* * *

_O swear not by the moon, th'inconstant moon  
That monthly changes in her circled orb,  
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable._ - Shakespeare 

"HALF-BLOOD, FREAK, SLUT, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE -"

"Oh, go bugger yourself with a rusty tire iron, Auntie." Tonks was trying to disentangle her ankles from a coat that must have fallen off one of the hooks in the front hall. She'd hit the floor so hard that she thought she must've dislocated both kneecaps.

"HOW DARE YOU, YOU'RE NO RELATIVE OF MINE, YOUR MOTHER WAS A SLUT JUST LIKE -"

"SHUT YOUR BLOODY MOUTH, YOU STUPID OLD SLAG!" she shouted.

The old battle-ax gaped, mouthing wordlessly with shock and rage, and Tonks took the opportunity to jerk the curtain shut. She checked her backpack to make sure the vial hadn't broken, and was limping down the hall when Remus appeared on the stairs. He was wearing an overly large white T-shirt which sagged over his skinny shoulders, and a pair of threadbare blue pajama bottoms. "You know Sirius always said to just ignore her," he said.

"Wotcher, Remus. Sorry, I didn't know you were asleep."

"I wasn't, I was just reading. What's up?"

"I've got the wolfsbane potion for you, from Slughorn. It took _six _bags of that nasty pineapple rubbish and two bottles of mead to bribe him into doing it, can you believe it?"

"I'm surprised that was all it took. Thanks for bringing it." He came down the stairs and took the vial from her. "A rusty tire iron, that's very inventive. I would've gone for a red hot poker, myself . . ." He yawned. "I was just going to put a kettle on, if you're interested."

She limped after him towards the kitchen stairs. "If you have any ice, that'd be wonderful. I think I just fucking kneecapped myself."

"Ah, the sound of a woman swearing is sweet, sweet music to my ears."

"Oh, shut up."

"Tonks, I was joking."

"Hmph."

Down in the kitchen, she sipped her tea and clutched a bag of ice over her knees as he opened the vial of potion. She could smell it from across the room: a thick, fetid, rotting smell, like the dead squirrel she'd once stuck under the rug in the Slytherin common room. "Here's to old Slughorn." He raised the vial in a mock toast and gulped the contents in one go. He closed his eyes and set his mouth, and a crease appeared between his eyebrows. It was the expression of someone who is either pondering the secret of existence or making a supreme effort not to vomit.

"Do you ever just puke it back up?" she asked as he guzzled his tea.

"I did once, when I was teaching. I didn't want to ask Snape for more, so. . . " He shrugged. "Made a right mess of my office."

"They're still looking for him."

"Snape?"

"Yeah. Shacklebolt's in charge of the search. I don't think they'll find him.." She drew designs in spilled tea on the table top. "Murderous bastard."

He poured more milk and hot water into his mug and sat at the table, stirring it in silence. She edged her chair closer to him and put a hand over his. He turned his hand over so that their fingers interlaced, and said, "Are you still willing to stay tonight?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Thank you. It's just. . . a little easier when I've got some company. Dung used to read to me."

"I didn't know he could read."

"Well, it was usually the letters column from Playwitch -"

"Oh God."

"Indeed." He drained the remainder of his tea, gave her hand a final squeeze, and got up to put the mug in the sink. "Do you want anything to eat? I'm afraid all I've got here is pot noodle. . . but I have got six different flavors."

"Nah, I'm not really hungry." The thought of pot noodle made her queasy. She'd eaten far too much of it before she got her job with the Ministry. Pot noodle, chip butties, coffee, and lager. It was a wonder she was still alive.

"Me neither." He leaned against the sink and folded his arms. He had gotten more hairy even since they'd been sitting here, and his ears were starting to look distinctly pointed. "It's starting, isn't it?" he said, noticing her stare.

"I think so. A little bit."

He scratched the thickening pelt on his chest and watched her warily, as if expecting her to say something more. Maybe expecting her to shriek with horror, or flee from the house, or tell him he was disgusting. She had never been here on the full moon - Sirius or Dung had been the ones to keep him company when she was hanging around here last year - so she had no idea what to expect. But she kept her promises, and she wasn't afraid.

"So Harry said you could keep on staying here?" she asked, trying to sound casual as she stirred more sugar into her tea.

"Yes, I talked to him about it last week, after the wedding. I can't go back to the werewolf gang, you know, so I haven't really got anywhere else to go."

"You could go stay with the Weasleys. Or I'm sure there are other people who would take you in." I would take you in, she thought.

"I don't want to impose on anyone." He sounded uncomfortable, and she wasn't surprised when he changed the subject. "How are your knees?"

"Better. I think I ought to start wearing kneepads. I'm going to do some permanent damage at some point."

"Can't you make them more -" He gestured vaguely. "Resilient?"

"I tried, but then my jeans wouldn't fit."

He started laughing, which turned into a coughing fit. He put his hands over his face. "Are you all right?" she asked, trying to get up. The bag of ice slithered to the floor and in picking it up, she managed to knock over her chair.

When he took his hands away, his eyes were bright yellow, the pupils contracted. "Get out of here," he snarled.

"But you said -"

"Get OUT."

"Out of the kitchen or out of the house?"

"The kitchen! I don't want you to - ahhh -" He doubled over, clutching at himself.

She backed away from him, stumbling over the overturned chair and somehow managing not to fall. Hair - no, not hair, fur - was sprouting out of the back of his neck. He looked up again and bared his teeth - his enormous sharp canines - and she dropped the bag of ice and ran, slamming the door behind her.

She didn't know how much time passed as she huddled there on the kitchen stairs with her fingers in her ears. When she finally took them out, the screaming and crashing about had stopped, to be replaced with a more ominous silence. "Remus?" she called cautiously. Panting and scuffling. "Can I come in? Err. . . one bark for yes, two for no." There was a long pause, and she heard one small yap, which sounded more like a Chihuahua than some vicious man-eating beast. Nevertheless, it still took her a moment to get up her nerve to open the door to the wolf.

* * *

Smells of spilled tea, cooking; the smell of his lost friend everywhere, on every chair, on the floor and the walls even, as if his flesh had merged into the house somehow. Black-and-white stop-motion images; the flicker of a nicitating membrane across his eyes. He treads in wetness: the spilled bag of ice is starting to melt. Thirsty from the effort of his change, he laps at the puddle. No sense in being squeamish. 

"Wotcher, Remus," she says. The vivid pink of her hair registers; the rest is shades of gray, a substantial ghost. "You all right?" One bark for yes. That's right, isn't it? Short-term memory lapse. She's holding out her hand to him, and for a moment he wants to close his jaws on those fingers, feel bone crunch and blood spurt, taste greasy fat and toothsome muscle. (Dear Remus Lupin: Please don't. Sincerely, your cerebral cortex.) Sniff instead. Good dog. She smells faintly of his human self, and of milk from her tea, and she also smells a bit like Sirius - a variation on a theme. He's noticed that all the Blacks (even that repulsive little shit, Malfoy junior) have a similar smell, presumably something to do with their impeccably pure DNA.

She scratches behind his ears. It feels nice. Nobody's ever done that before. Nobody seems to realize that he's a dog, just an overgrown dog (with the occasional taste for human flesh). His tail is wagging of its own accord. Never can control the thing. "Come on, then, let's go upstairs and we'll find a book for you."

His claws slip on the stone stairs and he stumbles, catching himself just in time. She waits, looking over her shoulder. Is she afraid? She must be afraid. But she's hiding it well, trained in dissembling. It's only a matter of time before the façade breaks.

He locates the book he wants by smell rather than sight, from the bookshelf by the fireplace. "Are you sure? You don't want something less - err, intellectually stimulating? All right, then. . ."

She's gotten a fire going in the grate with her wand. He's curled up next to her on the hearth rug, and it's warm and good here, and though he can smell Sirius' ghost scent more strongly than in the kitchen (he used to kip here on winter nights, where it was warm), it's all right. Comforting, even. The dead are never really gone, they always leave some of themselves around.

"You know," she says as she crosses her legs and settles the book in her lap, "you're really a very handsome wolf. I was expecting something more. . . monstrous, you know? Not that you're not a handsome human, of course."

He snorts. She rubs his belly, and for a moment he's helpless and wriggling with delight. Really now, Lupin, you're at the top of the food chain - have some bloody dignity. He sits up and paws at the book. "All right, all right, hold your horses. . ." She opens the book and begins to read.

" I want to speak about bodies changed into new forms. You, gods, since you are the ones who alter these, and all other things, inspire my attempt, and spin out a continuous thread of words, from the world's first origins to my own time."

The text is comfortingly familiar. He knows this book nearly by heart, having read it first when he was still at school, first in English and then in Latin. He remembers especially the story of Lycaon, punished for feeding the gods human flesh: "His clothes became bristling hair, his arms became legs. He was a wolf, but kept some vestige of his former shape. There were the same gray hairs, the same violent face, the same glittering eyes, the same savage image."

His sense of the passage of time is hazy. Canines must be missing that part of their brain, whatever it's called, the hippocampus? No, that's a kind of magical creature. At any rate, it seems like no time at all before she's telling him that she's hoarse, she needs to sleep for a bit, it's awfully late, aren't you tired too?

He is tired. He doesn't know how many hours remain before moonset, but there must be time to sleep. He rests his muzzle on his front paws and shuts his eyes. He is a wolf, but he keeps some vestige of his former shape: he dreams of walking on two legs.

* * *

She was woken by his whimpering. She had fallen asleep on the floor with him sprawled next to her. The fire had died down to embers some time before, and the room was freezing.

"Remus?" He was thrashing around now, his whimpers becoming moans and then howls. She stupidly reached an arm out to him, then jerked her head back as those huge claws came at her and raked across her face before he rolled away.

In the dim light of pre-dawn, she could see him writhing on the floor as his forelegs wrenched themselves backwards and his toes began to lengthen. As blood dripped down her cheek, she crouched on the hearth rug and forced herself to watch as his howls turned to screams, seeing how the fur seemed to withdraw back into his skin, listening to the crack of bones forming themselves into new alliances. When it was over, he lay in a fetal position with his back to her, breathing heavily. He was naked, every vertebra clearly delineated beneath his pallid skin.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm cold." His voice was very small and weak.

She got the fire going again and fetched the coat that she had tripped over on the way in. Leaning over him, she put a hand on his shoulder and he flinched. "Sorry. . . here's something to keep you warm."

He struggled into the coat and just sat there for a while, staring into space with his bare legs splayed out in front of him. She could see a fresh bite on his upper calf, and wondered where it came from. Finally, he shook himself all over like a dog, took a deep breath and let it out, and blinked up at her. "Tonks, you're bleeding."

"Oh. Oh, yeah." She'd forgotten.

"Did I do that?"

"Erm. . . yeah. But it's nothing. . . just a scratch. . ."

"I'm sorry, I really am - I didn't mean to hurt you - I didn't want you to see. . ."

"I'll be fine, Remus. Honestly."

"I knew this would happen."

She didn't know what to say. She reached over and smoothed his disarrayed hair, running her hand down the side of his face. He wouldn't meet her eyes. "Let's go upstairs and get you cleaned up," he said.

He walked slowly and stiff-legged, like an old man with rheumatism, up the stairs, and she followed him into the bathroom. She examined her injuries in the mirror: four parallel scratches, not deep, but still oozing blood. He insisted on cleaning them out with whiskey fetched from Sirius's old room. She rather enjoyed his maternal ministrations - he'd obviously been spending too much time around Molly Weasley - but the alcohol stung horribly. "I'm not an expert in medical spells, so this will have to do. . . I don't think you're a candidate for St. Mungo's quite yet. . ."

"Shouldn't we be drinking this instead?" she asked. The liquor was dripping down her neck and soaking into the collar of her shirt. "Seems sort of wasteful."

"Unless your name is Mundungus Fletcher, it's far too early to be drinking."

"This time of day's a bit troublesome," she said, mimicking his pedantic tones. "You could consider it early in the morning, or conversely, very late at night."

He looked down at her, then at the bottle of whiskey. In the yellow light over the sink, he looked older and sicker than ever, the shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheekbones. He had told her once that each full moon gave him another gray hair. One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "Your reasoning is specious, Miss Tonks. Please see me in my office after class."

She rolled her eyes, took the bottle from him and gulped down one large, burning mouthful. The scratches on her face hurt a little less now, or maybe she just didn't care anymore. She gave the bottle back and he took a small sip. His face twisted. "This is disgusting."

"I know, it's brilliant."

"To each their own. I need to go back to sleep."

"Yeah, me too. . . I suppose I'd better go home."

"You don't have to, you know. You can sleep in Harry's room, upstairs. . . or you can sleep with me." Her expression must have changed, because he flushed a little and added, "Just sleep, I mean."

She bit her lip to keep from giggling. "That sounds all right."

He was staying in her other cousin's room, the cousin who had died when she was small. The room, like the rest of the house, was in a state of genteel decay - the expensive wallpaper peeling, the carpet torn. There was one of Molly's hand-knitted blankets on the bed, its cheery colors contrasting sharply with the rest of the décor. It was very warm, as she found out when she crawled underneath it.

He shucked the coat when she wasn't looking (she was slightly annoyed by this) and crawled under the covers beside her. The first rays of the morning sun came in through the open blind and illuminated the stubble on his cheek as he lay on his back, looking supremely relaxed. He was fighting off sleep; his eyes kept drifting shut and then opening again. "Tonks," he murmured.

"Mmm?" She raised herself up on one elbow so she could see him better.

"Thank you."

"For what, love?"

"Being patient. It's a virtue, you know. . ."

She leaned down, and he caught her intention and tilted his head back to accept her kiss. She'd intended it to be a quick peck, the sort of kiss they usually exchanged, but he responded with sleepy enthusiasm and it ended up being quite a bit longer than that. "Sorry," he said after she managed to disentangle herself.

It took her a moment to catch her breath. "Can we do that again?"

"I don't know. I'll have to think about it."

"Get stuffed, old man."

She realized how much she enjoyed seeing him smile, the way his eyes crinkled up and the gauntness of his face was briefly forgotten. "As I just said, Nymphadora, patience is a virtue."

"Oh, go to sleep."

"I shall."

She lay back down, and he rolled over on his side and seemed to fall asleep immediately. It took her a little longer to doze off. It had occurred to her that she was lying in bed fully clothed, with Remus who was naked. The implications were endless, but she was too tired to think about them.

He had extraordinary eyelashes, she noticed now that his eyes were finally shut: long and gingery-colored against the pallor of his skin. She wondered how many other tiny aspects of his person she would be learning about in the days and weeks to come; she would be an explorer setting forth in a new country. She liked that thought. She slept soundly.

to be continued


	2. Snogging as a Spectator Sport

Disclaimer: Everything is J.K. Rowling's, yup.

* * *

"Oh, she was such a charming young lady. . ." He turned the taps off, as the tub was practically overflowing. "All in the height of her bloom. . ." The water was nice and hot, and he was already beginning to turn the color of a boiled lobster. "And I being a dashing young coachman, I drove her ten times 'round the room." He slumped down so that his aching shoulders were submerged, and water slopped onto the floor.

He had a terrible voice, which sounded even worse as it echoed off the bathroom tiles. Couldn't carry a tune to save his life. No matter, nobody could hear him - Tonks had still been asleep when he'd gotten up.

The bathroom had once been luxurious: clawfoot tub, elaborate tilework, brass fixtures - the faucets were in the shape of dragon's heads. But of course there had been a coat of grime over everything, many of the tiles were missing, and the brass was flaking off the fixtures. Under Molly's supervision, they had scrubbed and polished as best they could, but there was still a permanent ring around the tub and there was nothing they could do about the rust stains or the mildew. The second floor bathroom was the same way.

As in many old houses, there was no shower fixture. But the tub was nearly big enough for him to stretch out in, and he was fairly tall. With a book to read and some wine from the supply in the kitchen (the Blacks had excellent taste), he could happily stay here for hours, and often did.

He was currently lacking in drinking and reading material, however, so when the water began to cool, he figured he might as well get on with the whole personal hygiene thing. He slid down until his head was underwater, amused himself by blowing bubbles until he couldn't hold his breath any longer, and then sat up and began to wash himself. He no longer paid much attention to how thin he'd gotten or the array of new scars he'd acquired since living with the werewolves. The sores were healing at any rate, and Madam Pomfrey had mended his broken toes. Only one injury was still red and raw: the bite on his calf. It had been that way for thirty-three years.

After getting out and drying himself, he wrapped a towel around his waist and went back to "his" room. The bed was empty. He thought she must've gone upstairs to the other bathroom. Or maybe she had gone home - but no, he saw her discarded jeans by the side of the bed. Good. He was just buttoning a pair of moderately clean trousers when the door banged open to reveal Tonks in her T-shirt and knickers (white with multi-colored polka dots), her hair now a rich shade of royal blue.

"Ooh, I thought you were still in the bathroom." She began to back out of the room, but he beckoned her in. She sat on the bed next to him as he rummaged around for a T-shirt. He could sense her staring at him, and was simultaneously embarrassed and rather pleased. He tried not to stare back. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Erm. . . tired. Those scratches look better."

"Yeah, I think the whiskey helped."

"I'm surprised it didn't poison you. By the way, I don't think I'm going to be up for much today, so if you're planning on sticking around, I hope you won't be too bored. I'm probably just going to lie on the couch and read."

"Do you mind if I stay? I've got nothing planned this weekend, so. . . "

"Of course I don't mind. I was. . . err, hoping you would, actually." It was hard for him to say things like that. Embarrassing. The words seemed to stick in his throat. She looked pleased, though.

He pulled on one of Sirius' over-large jumpers, and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the dresser, he realized he looked like a small boy wearing clothes his parents expected him to grow into. He combed his wet hair with his fingers and contemplated arranging it over his bald spot. No, that would look ridiculous. When he turned away from the mirror, he saw that Tonks had pulled her jeans back on. A pity, she had nice legs. She was making blue fur grow on the backs of her hands. "What's the song you were singing in the bathroom?" she asked.

"It's called 'Coachman's Whip.' It's traditional. I like that sort of thing. . . old songs, ballads and what-not. . . although that's not really a ballad. . . "

"Do you like any music made after 1400?"

"I like the Beatles." She rolled her eyes. "And the Kinks, and the Jam, and Elvis Costello. Despite appearances, I'm not quite as uncool as you might think. That fur is very fetching on you."

"You like it?" She sprouted fur all over, and briefly resembled a miniature Hagrid dipped in blue paint. She was showing off, of course. "You know what?" she added, as she made the fur vanish. "I'm starving. And I don't want pot noodle."

"I haven't got any money, you know that."

"But I do. I'm going to buy bacon and eggs and bread and coffee, and we're going to have a lovely cholesterol-filled breakfast. Or lunch, rather," she added, glancing out the window, where the sun was high.

He hated the idea of being the recipient of charity, but the mere thought of bacon and eggs made his stomach rumble. "I hope you can cook, then, because boiling water is about all I can manage."

"Err. . . I can make toast. . . "

"Excellent. Well, if we're lucky, the fire damage should be minimal."

"Your glass is always half-empty, isn't it, Remus?"

"Not always."

She smirked, looking eerily like Sirius. "I'll be back in a little while."

He heard her trotting down the stairs, heard her curse as she tripped over the loose runner rug at the base of the staircase, and then heard the door open and slam behind her. The house suddenly seemed very quiet, and not in a good way. He settled down on the bed to wait for her to return, as his stomach growled again.

* * *

"So what's this one from?"

"Paper cut. Horribly painful. Nearly bled to death. That's the real reason I resigned from Hogwarts, I didn't want to risk another one. . ."

"No, really."

"That one is from. . . good lord, what was his name. . . something stupid. The Dark Minion of the Night, or something like that. They all had ridiculous names. I believe Fenrir Greyback's name is actually John Watson, though I've got no proof of that. Anyway, we got in a fight over a leg of lamb that I had stolen from a butcher's shop."

"So who won?"

"Believe it or not, I did. Best meal I've ever had."

"You must be relieved not to be hanging around with that lot anymore."

He shifted position, and pulled a pillow out from under his back, throwing it on the floor along with his T-shirt and jumper. "It had its appeal. Living without conscience, morals, or ethics. . . everything is cut out for you. That's the real reason they do what they do - they're lazy and they use their lycanthropy as an excuse."

"You should talk to Madam Pomfrey about getting your nipple back."

"It's still there, you just can't see it very well. Anyway, what has it ever done for me?"

"Well, for one thing -"

There was a knock on the door. "Oh, bugger!" In trying to get off of him and off the couch, she fell and hit her bruised knees again. "Ow!"

"Oh dear." His rumpled head appeared above the collar of his T-shirt. He worked his arms into the sleeves and offered her a hand up. "I'll get it, if you want."

"No, I can do it. . . ow. . ." She limped to the door, and he followed, pulling his jumper on. "Wotcher, Hermione!"

"Hello, Tonks. Hello, Professor Lupin." Hermione, in a flowered blouse and jeans, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Her thick hair was pulled back in an untidy ponytail, and she looked tired. Her glance flickered over the scratches on Tonks's cheek, but she blessedly said nothing about them.

"Hello, Hermione. I'm not your professor anymore - you can call me Remus."

". . . Remus. Your jumper's on backwards."

"Oops." He retreated into the drawing room, and Tonks ushered Hermione in. "What's that smell?" she asked Tonks as they walked past Mrs. Black's blessedly silent portrait. "It smells like something's burning."

"We burned breakfast." Actually, it had just been the bacon that burned. Remus ate it anyway, claiming that cinders were his favorite dish.

"So what brings you here, Hermione?" Remus had gotten his clothing sorted and was sitting on the couch. Tonks sat down next to him. Hermione sat in Sirius's old armchair (covered with black dog hairs - Remus said he hadn't the heart to clean it). She still looked uncomfortable.

"Harry wanted me to come," she said. "He's with his aunt and uncle right now. I told him he ought to talk to you himself, but he doesn't want to come back here. He wanted me to talk to you about the stuff that Mundungus Fletcher stole."

"Ah, yes. I hope Harry doesn't blame me - I was with the werewolf pack at the time."

"No, he doesn't. . . but he wanted to know what had been stolen, and if you don't know, he wanted you - us - to try and find out."

"Hmm. I know about the items in this room, but that's all. There isn't exactly an inventory of the Black family heirlooms around here. Maybe Tonks is more familiar with them."

"Because I'm a Black? Come on, I've never been here before last year. My aunt wouldn't let a half-blood set foot in here."

"Sorry, I forgot." How could have he forgotten something like that? Maybe last night had addled his brains. "Well, I'll send an owl to Harry and tell him I'll have a look around. He also might want to tell Kreacher to actually start talking to me instead of shrieking about werewolves every time he sees me. If anyone knows what's been stolen, it'd be him."

"Oh, of course. That's a good idea." Hermione looked down at her hands and shuffled her feet.

"That's not the only reason you're here, is it?" Remus inquired.

"No. . . it's . . ." She looked up. Her eyes were filling with tears. "My parents want to take me out of school."

"Because of Dumbledore?"

"Yeah." She sniffed. "They're Muggles, you know, so they don't know everything that's going on. When I went home, before the wedding, I had to tell them. . . I didn't feel right not telling them that my headmaster was. . . dead." She twisted her hands in her lap. "I didn't tell them that my potions master had done it, though. They don't understand about Vol- about You-Know-Who, but. . . they think it's not safe for me to go back. Even if Hogwarts does re-open next year."

"We're all in danger, anywhere we go. Hogwarts is probably the safest place you could be right now."

"I tried to tell them that, but they don't understand. But I told them about the NEWTs, and how I really want to take them and. . . they said I could have a private tutor." She looked at Remus hopefully.

"You want me to be your tutor."

"You need a job, and they're willing to pay, and you're the best teacher I've ever had, and it would make any difference about you being a werewolf because you wouldn't be staying with us, so my parents wouldn't need to know about that."

"You know, I'm not that well-rounded. I'm not an expert at Potions, or Transfiguration, or Herbology. . . I'm not bad at Charms, but still. . ."

"But you passed your NEWTs in all those things, didn't you?"

"Twenty years ago. And not telling your parents that I'm a werewolf doesn't seem very ethical to me."

"No, it's not." Hermione thought about it. "But. . . maybe you could be my tutor just for Defense Against the Dark Arts? And Charms? I mean, if I can't talk my parents into letting me go back to Hogwarts, or if it doesn't re-open. . ."

"Should that be the case, and if you inform your parents about my condition and they are still willing to hire me, I will be your tutor for those subjects."

"Thank you so much, Profe - Remus."

"You're very welcome." He smiled, and Hermione smiled back, wiping her tears away with her fingers.

"You're still staying with the Weasleys, aren't you?" Tonks asked. "Has everyone recovered from the wedding yet?"

"Mrs. Weasley had a bit of a nervous breakdown after the guests left, but I think she was just relieved that it was over." She dug a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. "She said she cried when she saw you kissing at the reception."

Tonks barely remembered it. It had been their first passionate kiss - their first passionate anything - and she'd been drunk as a lord. She did recall that he had tasted like champagne, and that there were bits of wedding cake in his mustache. And a whole lot of people applauded afterwards.

Remus had gone slightly pink, but continued to smile in his genial professor manner. "So we're now a spectator sport for the Weasleys?"

"Well, you shouldn't have been snogging in public. Fred and George were betting on how long you'd be at it."

Remus turned even more pink. He glanced over at Tonks, who once again was struggling to keep from laughing, and raised his eyebrows. "Do you need a drink of water, Nymphadora?"

"No," she managed to sputter. He was so stuffy, she loved it.

Hermione got up. "I should probably go." Her gaze flickered between the two of them, and she looked to be on the verge of laughter as well. "I'll tell Harry what you said. And thank you for offering to help me, sir."

"_Remus,_."

"Remus. Oh, and Mrs. Weasley says you're both invited to dinner tomorrow night. She's making beef stew."

"Tell her we'll be there," said Remus.

Tonks got up to walk Hermione to the door. Stepping out onto the front steps, Hermione turned around and said, "By the way, Fred won the bet. Six minutes." She grinned and shut the door before Tonks could respond.

to be continued


	3. The Straight Dope from Sirius Black

**Disclaimer:** Oh, this is so J.K. Rowling's world. I mean, totally.

Massive thanks to the Harry Potter Lexicon and Wikipedia for being invaluable resources.

Britspeak notes: Boxing Day is the day after Christmas. Smarties are the British (and Canadian and Australian) equivalent of M&M's. Or, according to Wikipedia, "Smarties are oblate spheroids with a minor axis of about 5 mm and a major axis of about 12 mm." Indeed.

* * *

**Boxing Day, 1995**

"I think I've got a flush," said Sirius. "Remus, is this a flush?"

"Don't show me your cards, you idiot."

"I fold," said Tonks, throwing down her cards.

"Let's just say I win, all right?" said Remus brightly.

"What have you got, then?"

"A full house." Remus displayed his hand, then reached out to claim the large pile of Smarties in the middle of their circle.

It was a homely scene at Number 12, Grimmauld Place. The drawing room was softly lit with Christmas decorations, a fire was roaring in the hearth. Mundungus was passed out on the couch with a bottle of gin in his hand. Everyone else was upstairs asleep. It was two weeks till the full moon, his belly was full of Christmas leftovers, and Sirius had brought out a bottle of very old and fine wine from the pantry. Remus was feeling quite pleasant. Tonks' hair was shoulder-length and purpley-black tonight, and she looked lovely. Sirius' Christmas cheer had faded a bit, but it was still officially a holiday and he was keeping up appearances.

"Shall we play again, then?"

"Yeah, all right," said Tonks, sounding determined. She had won the first game, even though she had been strictly forbidden to use her abilities to create the perfect poker face. Wands were forbidden as well. Remus remembered that Sirius had been a notorious card cheat at school.

"Can't we play something normal instead?" Sirius asked.

"You're outvoted, Sirius. Look, I'll make you a cheat sheet." Remus wrote down the different hands on a slip of paper and handed it over. Sirius looked mollified, and Remus shuffled the cards and began to deal.

The bottle of wine went around again several times as the game progressed. Sirius was actually putting some effort into it this time, consulting the cheat sheet frequently. The stakes were high, Tonks and Sirius were trying to out-glare each other, and finally Remus folded. Sirius looked smug and displayed a straight flush. A murderous expression crossed Tonks' face. "I loathe you with every fiber of my being."

"I love you too, darling." Sirius tossed a Smartie up in the air and caught it in his mouth.

"I'm going to bed." She got up, then leaned down and kissed Remus on the cheek, her hair swinging forward to brush against his skin. He suppressed a shiver.

"How about a little sugar for your cousin?" Sirius inquired, raising his eyebrows, and she kissed him on the forehead before bidding them goodnight and going upstairs. He grinned at Remus, showing his yellowing teeth. "You're blushing, Moony."

He rubbed his cheek without thinking about it. "She caught me under the mistletoe a few days ago."

"Nice one."

"I think she feels sorry for me."

"You are quite pitiable, I must admit." Sirius tossed another Smartie up in the air. It bounced off his nose and fell in his lap. He picked it up and ate it. "These aren't bad, for Muggle sweets."

"They're good, aren't they?"

Sirius drew his knees up and put his arms around them, and regarded Remus thoughtfully. In the dim, flickering light, the marks of age and troubles were more difficult to see. Except for the long hair that he now had tucked behind his ears, he bore a striking resemblance to the young man who had recklessly disregarded every lesson his family and his world had taught him, and befriended a monster.

"You're pathetic, Moony," he said. "A beautiful woman throws herself at you, and all you can say is, 'Oh, she must be feeling sorry for me.' You're completely useless."

"She's not _throwing_ herself at me, Sirius. She's kissed me twice. On the cheek, mind you. For heaven's sake, Molly Weasley has kissed me more often than Tonks has. Tonks is fond of me, that's all. I'm fond of her too."

Sirius smirked and took a swig from the bottle of wine, and passed it across to Remus. According to the label, it was a Sauternes, and thus intended (he had read somewhere) to be sipped delicately with dessert or cheese. He reckoned the Smarties counted as dessert. He took several large swallows and stifled a belch. "This is really excellent wine."

"Yeah, it was one of my father's favorites. Which is why I'm letting a half-blood werewolf drink it."

"It all makes sense now."

They passed the bottle back and forth a couple of times. "You know," said Sirius, wiping wine from his chin, "if you married Tonks, you'd be my cousin."

"I'm not marrying Tonks."

"I just hope your kids take after her, because let's face it, Moony, you have a certain charm - I mean in a darkened room, of course, or if your eyesight's poor - but no child should have to go through life with a nose like yours."

"I happen to be quite fond of my nose. And I'm not marrying Tonks! I hardly even know her!"

"No need to shout."

"I wasn't shouting!"

Sirius took another swig of wine. "Look, Moony, I don't mean to get your knickers in a twist. I'm just trying -"

"Sirius, my love life, or lack thereof, is none of your business, unless you've been thinking of starting an advice column."

"Ooh, that's an idea. 'Dear Sirius Black: I am a 35-year-old unemployed werewolf looking for love in all the wrong places.' Do you think The Quibbler would run it? I should ask Harry to ask Lovegood's daughter how much they pay. . ."

Remus snorted. He accepted the proffered bottle and drank more of the heavy sweet wine. "'Dear Sirius Black: I am a filthy layabout in desperate need of a haircut, recently escaped from prison. . .'"

"'Dear Sirius Black: I am an ugly greasy foul-tempered git despised by everyone around me. And yet, I yearn for love. Please help! Sincerely, S. Snape. Dearest Snapey-kins: Try taking a shower. Alternately, you might want to do the world a favor and kill yourself. Love and kisses, your pal, Sirius Black.'"

"Poor old Snapey-kins." Remus shook his head and passed the bottle back to Sirius, who drank, his adam's apple bobbing in his skinny neck. Wine trickled from the corners of his mouth and spilled on his shirt. "You know Snape is coming here, don't you? He's going to talk to Harry about occlumency lessons."

"Oh, bloody hell." Sirius looked deflated all of a sudden. He looked down into the neck of the bottle, then set it down on the rug. "That's the thing, Moony," he said, looking up and brushing a strand of hair out of his face. "I don't want you to end up like Snivellus."

"I take a bath every day."

"No, no. I don't want you to end up a miserable loathsome bastard. I want you to be happy."

"That's awfully sweet of you."

"No, really. You're my best mate, you deserve it. If I can't be happy, at least you can be happy."

"Your time will come, Sirius."

"Yeah, well. . . it had better come soon. That's all I'm saying." He sloshed the remaining few inches of wine around in the bottle. "Shall I get some more wine, then?"

"No, I think I'm going to sleep." He didn't realize how drunk he was until he got up. He had to brace his hand against the mantelpiece to keep from falling over. Low alcohol tolerance - he didn't think he'd drunk that much. He glanced down at the mess of cards and Smarties on the floor. "You want some help cleaning that up?"

"No, that's all right, I'll do it." Sirius got up as well, more steady on his feet than Remus. He glanced at Mundungus, who was sprawled on his back with his mouth hanging open, clutching his empty bottle of gin to his chest like a teddy bear. "Do you think he's still alive?"

"He's still breathing. Look, his nose hairs are moving."

"Oh, good. I don't want anyone dying in my house."

"Good night, Padfoot." Sirius smiled and Remus went to give him a manly slap on the shoulder. Before he could dodge, Sirius lunged forward and hugged Remus so hard that Remus felt bones in his back pop. "Good night, Moony."

As Remus headed for the stairs, he looked over his shoulder and saw Sirius stoop to start picking up the cards as Mundungus began to snore. When Sirius straightened, he saw Remus watching him and waved. Remus waved back, then turned away, his ribs still aching, and went up to bed.

to be continued


	4. Cheap Champagne

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns (just about) everything.

I forgot to mention this earlier, but concrit and Britpicking are most welcome. Thanks in advance.

* * *

The landlord looked up from where he was smoking on the front steps as the girl from 21-A swept out the door, clutching a newspaper in one hand. "Hello, Nina," he called after her. "You all right?"

She turned around. She was wearing her usual T-shirt and patched jeans, and her hair was blue today. He had no idea how she managed to change hair colors so often, but several of his other tenants were nearly as frequent, so he supposed there must be some way. Maybe they wore wigs. "Wotcher, Amir. Rent's due tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Tomorrow is July 1st, so indeed it is. What's that on your cheek?"

"Oh. . . my friend's cat scratched me." She smiled, although it looked a bit forced. She was gripping the newspaper like a weapon.

"Are your classes over for the summer?"

She looked blank. "Yes - yes, they're over. How's Naureen? Is she getting big?"

"Oh, yes." He mimed a swelling belly. "Three more months."

"Nice. Well, I've got to go. . . I'll see you later."

"Good-bye." She clomped off down the street in her big black fuck-off boots. An odd girl. Nice, but odd. She had told him when she moved in last year that she was in her first year at King's College London, although he had never seen her with any books and she had never mentioned what she was studying. The only other thing he knew about her was that she'd been in hospital for a long time last year, just before she moved in here. She seemed to be away a lot of the time, although she was generally good about paying the rent - and she always paid in cash.

Once he'd gone into her flat, with her permission, to replace the batteries in the fire alarm. It was a perfectly ordinary student flat - or rather, a bedsit, one of the smallest in the building - with music posters all over the walls, a brightly-colored knitted bedspread, the usual amount of clutter, socks and papers and that sort of thing, and a small fishtank on the windowsill. The only strange thing was the photo tacked to her refrigerator. It depicted two thin, shabby-looking men, one with long black hair and an agreeable grin, the other with a prissy mustache and thinning grey-brown hair. He glanced at it idly, wondered which of them was her boyfriend (he guessed the bloke with the long hair), and climbed up the stepladder. When he got back down and glanced at the photo again, it had changed. The long-haired man had crossed his arms, and the man with the mustache was pursing his mouth as if trying not to laugh. As he watched, the long-haired man cocked his head and smirked, and he grabbed the stepladder and left as quickly as possible.

It was his tenants that kept his life interesting, but it was that photo, more than any of the other odd things about the girl in 21-A, that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He knew rationally that it had to be some weird new technology - holograms or suchlike - but it had looked so real. His granny had told him about the djinn, the spirits that Allah had made from smokeless fire; being a superstitious old bint, she probably would have said the girl was a witch who kept the spirits trapped in that photograph. He told Naureen about it and she just laughed and told him he was imagining things.

Ah, well. He had other things to concern him. He'd just found out that the girl in 17-B was actually not a girl at all, and he was strongly suspecting that the man in 10-A was selling something nasty and illegal out of his flat, judging by the dodgy characters who came to visit him. But his mundane worries never prevented him from treating the girl in 21-A with a bit of extra respect. You never could be too careful, these days.

* * *

"Goddammit, bloody fucking hell!" Tonks slammed the door behind her and stormed downstairs into the kitchen. "Remus, look at this! Remus? Remus, wake up, you're drooling."

Remus looked exactly the same as he had an hour ago. He had been sitting at the kitchen table counting silverware, and had fallen asleep with his head in his arms, a forlorn soup spoon still clutched in one hand. When Tonks shouted, he looked up and blinked blearily. "Harry, I told you, do the Patronus Charm."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not Harry. I've got much bigger tits, for one thing."

"Yes, so you do. Sorry." Remus yawned, exposing his still-elongated canine teeth, and rubbed his eyes like a small child. "So what's all the shouting about?" Tonks tossed today's issue of The Daily Prophet in front of him. "'Ministry of Magic calls for renewed ban on unauthorized cauldron imports'?"

"No, down at the bottom of the page."

He looked down and raised his eyebrows. There was a long pause. "The life and achievements of Albus Dumbledore, first in a 16 part series. By Rita Skeeter. Oh, for fuck's sake. 'Greatest wizard of the century.' 'Beloved headmaster'. . . 'Foremost in the wizarding world's battle against You-Know-Who'. . . "

"They spend years calling him a senile delusional old fart and now that he's dead, they're falling all over themselves to kiss his arse. If The Daily Prophet was any more full of shit, they'd have turds coming out of their eyes."

"That's a fairly accurate assessment, I'd say. But if it makes you feel any better, I'm sure Albus would find this highly amusing."

"Remus, let's move to Paris. We can get a flat on the Left Bank, and I can work for the French Ministry of Magic and you can teach at Beauxbatons. We can eat fois gras and crepes and drink champagne. And we'll never have to deal with Rita Skeeter or the bloody Ministry here ever again."

"That sounds like an excellent idea. Unfortunately, Beauxbatons isn't in Paris and the French are no more likely to give a werewolf a job than the British. They call us _loup-garou_ in France. It sounds much more romantic than 'werewolf,' don't you think?"

"Oh, go ahead and piss on my parade." She sat down next to him and leaned her chin in her hands.

He yawned again (remembering to cover his mouth this time), checked his watch, and gave her a curious look. "You've been here all afternoon?"

"I was going through the cupboards upstairs and then I remembered I needed to go home and feed my fish and pay some bills. So I've been gone for a little while."

"Do you still live in that place near the Ministry?"

"Nah, couldn't afford it anymore. I moved last year, after. . . well. It's a nice place, you should come over some time."

"I'd like that."

She hesitated. "You could come over now, if you like. I've tidied it up a little. And you haven't been outside all day. It was actually sunny today, can you believe it?"

"I would like to, honestly. But I'm afraid I'm in no shape to Apparate."

"We could take the Tube."

He looked wistful. "I haven't taken the Tube in ages."

"You enjoy taking the Tube?"

"I like people-watching." He shrugged. "And the names of the stations. And the noise the train makes when it arrives. When I was small, it was the most exciting thing in the world to go up to London with my mum and take the Tube. She couldn't Apparate, you know, because she was a Muggle, but I didn't mind."

"Well, let's go, then."

"Let me get my shoes."

Soon he was locking the front door with a large intricate iron key, and they were walking off towards King's Cross. He walked slowly, with a hint of a limp, and she had to slow down her usual brisk pace so he could keep up with her. He stooped a little and she felt his hand fumbling at hers. She took it.

The day was fading, but the sky was still clear and the air was mild. Everyone seemed a little dazed by the nice weather - people were walking aimlessly, looking up at the sky as if expecting it to cloud over at any minute, and cars cruised past with their windows open, blaring Top 40 radio or dancehall or classic rock. Remus's hand was cool and dry in hers, and he lifted his face to take in the breeze which blew his hair back and ruffled his over-large clothes. In the daylight, he looked a little less peaky, and the fresh air brought some color to his pale cheeks.

People were looking at them. An old lady selling flowers clucked and smiled, and a punk girl with green hair who could've been Tonks' little sister gave them a knowing glance as they walked by. She felt giddy, like she was walking several feet off the ground. Remus smiled down at her and squeezed her hand, and she smiled back. "Nice day for it, eh?" croaked a decrepit homeless bloke sitting on a bench nearby. "Yes, it is," replied Remus serenely.

She had to "loan" Remus some money for the Tube. He promised he would find some way to pay her back. "It's only a pound," she said as they went down the escalator. "Anyway, you're going to have a job soon, remember?"

"You don't really think that's going to happen, do you?"

"You never know."

The train was crowded with end-of-the-day commuters, and they had to sit across the aisle from each other. There were so many passengers standing up that she could only get occasional glimpses of him. When the crowd shifted at Leicester Square station, she saw that he was doing the crossword in a Muggle newspaper which had been on the seat next to him, a charming furrow of concentration between his greying eyebrows. Unfortunately a large woman's arse blocked her view after only a minute or two.

Her landlord was still sitting out on the front steps of the building, a big textbook spread across his lap. He was about thirty or so, with thick black chin-length hair and lovely black doe-eyes. "Oi, Amir - you still out here?" she called.

"Yeah, I thought I'd take advantage of the nice weather while it lasts." He looked up at Remus and his eyes widened slightly. "Who's this?"

"Oh, this is Remus - he's my - err - my -"

"I'm her boyfriend," said Remus. They shook hands. Tonks noticed that Amir seemed to want as little physical contact with Remus as possible. Remus paid no attention - she figured he was probably used to it.

"So you're my boyfriend now?" she said when they were upstairs in her flat.

Remus had cast himself into her overstuffed armchair as if he had been hiking across the Sahara for three days. "Is that the wrong term? I suppose it ought to be something like 'partner' or 'significant other' or something like that, right? We used to say 'going steady' back in school."

"No - I mean, I don't know. I was just wondering if that means it's official."

"It's been 'official' for a while now, don't you think?"

"I don't know. We've never really said anything about it."

"Do we have to make a speech or break a bottle of champagne or something? I don't know how it works these days. I'm a bit out of practice, you see."

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "You piss me off sometimes, you know that?"

"I wouldn't be a proper boyfriend if I didn't piss you off once in a while." She said nothing, and he leaned forward in the chair. "Let's make it official, then. I, Remus John Lupin, am your boyfriend. And you, Nymphadora Tonks, are my girlfriend. We can either shake on it or sign a document in our own blood, whichever you prefer."

"I'd rather go for the champagne, personally."

"You're never satisfied, are you?"

"Never. Is there room for one more in that chair?"

"I think so." He shifted to one side, and she squeezed herself into the small gap between his hip and the arm of the chair. She put her arms around him and leaned her head against his chest, his jumper scratchy against her face and smelling of ashes. He stroked her hair, and they were both silent.

* * *

The gibbous moon stood up in the clear sky like a giant's eye looking down on the city. London shifted in its sleep, the sound of passing cars, sirens and running feet disturbing its peace. The dome of St. Paul's looked like a ghost castle in the distance, silvery-gray against a sky tinged orange with city lights.

He wasn't in much of a position to appreciate the moon's beauty. The small sliver off the side of the moon's face merely meant that he had another 27 days until the monster came into him again. But he had to admire the way the pale light illumined the curve of her back and the hollow of her spine as she lay sleeping, the blanket slipped down to her waist. She was still here - after watching him screaming and howling on the full moon, after seeing his scars, after watching him fall asleep and drool on the kitchen table, after his clumsiness tonight (he was, after all, out of practice). He didn't understand it, but he had finally accepted it.

They'd left the window ajar, but the flat still smelled incongruously of kebabs. He was losing track of how much money he owed her. They'd gotten a bottle of crap champagne (or "sparkling wine," rather) as well, more like wine-flavored soda than anything else, and he'd forgotten to ask how much it cost. They could talk about it in the morning.

It hadn't really been all that bad tonight. She didn't seem to have high expectations, and took what he had to give with more grace than he thought she possessed. It would get easier with time and trust. He hoped so, anyway.

He had to go to the loo. She stirred a little when he got out of bed, then rolled over and was still again. He looked down at himself while he used the toilet, and rubbed his ruined right nipple absent-mindedly. He was thirsty too, but there were no cups in the bathroom, and only an animal would drink from the tap. Feeling a little odd walking naked around someone's flat, he padded into the kitchen and turned on the light.

The cups were above the sink. They were all made of plastic, due to her penchant for breaking things. He filled one at the sink and then noticed the photograph on the refrigerator. He reckoned it had been taken at his birthday party last March, since they both looked drunk and he was wearing the Weasley jumper he'd been given for the occasion. (A nice sober shade of charcoal gray, and no bloody letters on the front, thank goodness. Molly knew him well.) "Hello, Padfoot," he whispered. "How's tricks?" The Sirius in the photo smiled and waved, but of course there was no reply, and never would be.

He drank his water, turned off the light and got back into bed. "Remus?" she murmured. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here."

"Oh. . . good." She seemed to fall asleep again. He saw gooseflesh on her skin, and with a bit of selfish reluctance, pulled the blanket up over the moonlit landscape of her body.

It was a Weasley blanket of course, a Christmas gift. That woman never stopped knitting. He made a mental note to ask her for a lesson or two - it would pass the time at Grimmauld Place quite nicely, and the acquisition of a feminine skill certainly wouldn't harm anyone's impression of his manhood, which was no doubt already rather poor. He liked the idea of handmade things, care and love and attention going into every detail. All that work and time for the sake of keeping a person you cared about warm - a lofty goal.

It was three in the morning, according to Tonks's little digital alarm clock. Somewhere out there, Harry was no doubt lying awake and thinking of the tasks to come. Hermione was having one of those anxiety dreams where you find yourself naked in class, taking an exam you never studied for. The Weasleys huddled together for shelter. You-Know-Who was making plans. Severus Snape dreamed of death and punishment, choking on his own guilt. Bellatrix Lestrange - whom he scarcely regarded as human - was staring at her lost beauty in a scratched mirror. And although he'd never been one to believe in an afterlife (unless you became a ghost, of course), he liked to think that his lost friend and lost mentor were sharing a bottle of imaginary wine and laughing at the follies of the living.

And here in this bed, protected by love, their own little ship sailed on through the night. He didn't know what Tonks dreamed about, but he would have plenty of time to find out. He himself rarely recalled his dreams except for the occasional outstandingly weird one, though he knew that sometimes he dreamed as a human, sometimes as a wolf. He remembered telling Sirius about a dream which involved wristwatches from the future and interdimensional gurus who walked around with parasols. "What do you think it means?" he asked, and got precisely the answer he expected: "It means you're barmy, Moony."

Well, all right, then, maybe he was. But then, he suspected that some of his favorite people were also a bit mad - in a good way, of course. Anyone who fell in love with a werewolf would have to be a bit off their nut.

Earlier tonight, as they lay awake together, he had asked her if it hurt when she changed. "You always make a face, like this," he said, wrinkling his nose. "It looks rather painful."

"It's not," she said. "I just need to concentrate, that's all."

"Really? It never hurts?"

"No, not at all. It feels a bit odd sometimes, but it never hurts."

The idea of change without pain was a new one for him. Change of any kind, in his experience, was never pleasant. The inconstant moon wrote out that truth in the sky every month. It was written on his body and in his heart, and in the empty halls of Number 12, Grimmauld Place where his best friend had once walked like a ghost. But the change that had brought him here, in this bed beside this woman, though it had been long and slow and arduous, ultimately hadn't hurt at all. Though it felt a bit odd sometimes. He had some lessons to re-learn. He hoped Tonks would help him with that.

The moon was setting. It cast its light through the fishtank and created rippling reflections on the wall above the bed. The shadows of the tank's two inhabitants, a pair of goldfish named Zig and Zag, moved through the reflections with spectral grace. Watching them, he finally fell asleep.

to be concluded


	5. Evening Star

Disclaimer: Everything is Ms. Rowling's, which is unfortunate as I'd love to use all that royalty money to pay off my student loans.

So this is a little epilogue, which I had to tweak quite a bit to get the tone right (sweet but not sappy) - I'm still not sure if I managed it. Anyway, thanks to everyone who left a review, or several reviews in the case of saiyanwizardgurl. ;) Enjoy.

* * *

The windows of the Burrow were steamed up, even though it was so warm out. Walking into the kitchen was like walking into a sauna. Molly was the queen here, ordering her lackeys around - Hermione chopped potatoes into precise cubes, Ginny was washing dishes, Ron reluctantly peeled carrots. "Oi!" he said, looking up and squinting through the steam. "Mum, it's Tonks and Professor Lupin!"

"Oh my goodness! I didn't even hear you come in." Molly enveloped each of them in a bosomy hug.

"We brought dessert," said Remus, holding up a biscuit tin. It contained about two dozen brownies, each of the approximate density of a neutron star. When measuring the flour, Remus (who claimed he "knew exactly what he was doing") had mistaken tablespoons for teaspoons, and they hadn't realized the error until the brownies were already in the oven.

"Come on and sit down. Can I get you anything? Some tea, maybe?"

They each accepted a mug of sweet milky tea. Molly explained that Arthur had been called into work on an emergency and would be back soon. "Hermione says you've agreed to be her tutor. I think that's an excellent idea."

"Have you talked to your parents yet, Hermione?" Remus asked.

Hermione looked a trifle guilty. "Not yet. But I'm sure they'll want to hire you."

"We'll see," said Remus. Hermione looked a bit put out, and went back to cutting up the potatoes.

They were talking about the nice weather - Remus had actually gotten a slight sunburn on his nose today by sitting out in the garden for too long - when there was a hesitant knock at the kitchen door. "Harry!" Molly cried, getting up so hastily that her chair fell over. "I thought you were at your aunt and uncle's!"

Harry gave Ginny an uncertain look. She tossed her hair back and ostentatiously turned her head the other way. "I was, but Hermione told me that - oof -" When Molly released him, he smiled shyly at Remus and Tonks. "Hi, Tonks. Hi, Professor Lupin."

Remus seemed to have given up on getting the children to address him informally, since he merely nodded and said hello. "Wotcher, Harry!" Tonks said, getting up to give him a hug as well. "How are the Muggles treating you?"

"They think that if they pretend I'm not there, I'll leave sooner. It's all right by me."

"I've not met your Aunt Petunia," said Remus, "but judging by your descriptions, I have my doubts about whether she is really related to your mother."

"Yeah, I know. Erm . . . can I help with anything?"

Molly set Harry to peeling the carrots along with Ron, which quickly degenerated into a food fight. Ginny watched them with an expression of distaste. Molly eventually sent them both into the garden, where they continued to make a great deal of noise, although it was unclear exactly what they were doing. "Boys," she muttered exasperatedly, using her wand to get several carrot peelings off the ceiling. "I can't believe I managed to raise six of them without losing my mind." Arthur came in then, looking frazzled, and there was another round of greetings. He gratefully accepted a cup of tea and collapsed into a chair.

The stew took some time to cook. Ginny went up to her room, presumably for a good adolescent sulk. Hermione was telling Remus at great length about an article she'd read in Transfiguration Today, and he was doing a good job at pretending to look interested. Or maybe he wasn't pretending. Molly leaned across the table and whispered to Tonks, "What's that on your cheek?"

She automatically touched the four parallel scratches, which had mostly healed. "it's nothing, really." When Molly raised her eyebrows, she added, "I'll tell you about it later."

Finally the food was ready. Tonks was torn between annoyance and amusement at the way that Remus gobbled his food. He'd done the same thing with the kebabs - he barely seemed to chew, and seemed unaware (until she mentioned it) that he'd gotten sauce all over his face. He was managing to keep himself a little cleaner tonight, but she suspected that he was restraining himself from putting his face into the bowl like a pig. The stew was extremely good, though, so she supposed she couldn't blame him too much.

Molly had coaxed Ginny down from her room, and now she was shooting dirty looks at Harry, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table and listening to Tonks fill him in on the state of the stolen Black heirlooms. But while Remus passed around the Brownies of Infinite Density and Ron remarked that they would make excellent bludgeons, Ginny asked if she could be excused and dragged Harry out with her.

"Who do you think's going to win?" Hermione asked.

"My money's on Ginny," said Ron.

"I hope we won't have to turn the hose on them," Remus whispered to Tonks, who giggled.

The brownies really weren't all that bad. She ate two, and felt each one settle in her stomach like a brick. She was going to have indigestion tonight, she could sense it. All the heavy food was making her sleepy, and she barely listened to Arthur's epic tale of the black market divination cabal that was selling exploding scrying mirrors and contraband crystal balls. She didn't catch the names of the wizards responsible, but she figured Mundungus Fletcher was involved somehow. For some ungodly reason, she missed him.

Eventually Remus announced that he was tired, and after farewells all around, they walked out of the house together. It was another mild evening, the sun setting over the moors in a haze of red and gold. Out by the side of the house, Harry and Ginny were arguing fiercely with each other in hushed voices. Abruptly, Ginny flung her arms around Harry. As far as Tonks could tell in the dim light, Harry looked extremely confused.

"Ah, to be sixteen again," Remus commented.

"No thanks," said Tonks.

By some unspoken mutual decision, they went on walking along the lane that went past the house. The spot where it branched off towards the village was at the top of a hill, and they stood there for a while as the daylight continued to fade. "There's Venus," said Remus, pointing towards a bright star on the horizon. "You can tell planets from stars because planets don't twinkle."

"It's a lovely sunset."

"It is."

They stood there with their arms around each other, facing west in silence. "Well," said Remus presently, "I suppose we ought to go back to Grimmauld Place and clean up."

"Ooh, yeah, we left a bit of a mess, didn't we?"

"That's putting it mildly. It looked like a bakery exploded in there." Remus looked down at her, his face barely visible in the twilight. "You can stay the night again, if you like."

"I have to go to work tomorrow, remember?"

"Ah, yes, work. I remember work." He paused, and added, "You know, I was just thinking. . . that if you moved in with me, you wouldn't have to worry about that. I mean, err. . . there's plenty of room, you know, and we wouldn't have to. . . I'm sure Harry wouldn't mind. . . and if something came up with the Order, then if we were both in the same place. . ."

She thought about Number 12, Grimmauld Place - the long dark halls, the peeling wallpaper, Kreacher muttering about half-bloods and half-breeds under the kitchen boiler. She thought about Sirius sitting by the fire with the yellow light illuminating his face. She thought about Regulus Black's bed, and Remus in it, telling her that patience was a virtue. He was right, of course. She said, "Not yet, I think."

"Oh."

"Anyway, my lease isn't up for another month. But if you get me up early enough, so I can go home for a bit before work, I can stay the night tonight."

"I'm a master at waking people up. I'm like a human alarm clock."

"Excellent."

"Shall we go?" He offered his arm like a gentleman, and they were gone.

* * *

_Dear Sirius Black:_

_I am a 37-year-old unemployed werewolf looking for love in all the wrong places. If you'll recall, you informed me a year and a half ago that you "wanted me to be happy." What I didn't think to tell you at the time is that happiness is not a simple or easy goal, a door that will open whenever you knock. I don't know if you were ever truly happy, so you may have known that already. At any rate, I'm starting to think that I may have found a key that might open that door. I believe it's called trust._

_As for "love in all the wrong places," love can be found in all sorts of places, as I've discovered. Sometimes you can find it where you're least expecting it._

_I bid you adieu from the world of the living, and I remain, as always,_

_Your best mate,_

_R. J. Lupin_


End file.
